Countdown to Christmas
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: Christmas time with Sherlock and John... Well, it's definitely not normal, but it's still definitely Christmas. And John loves every minute of it. (Sherlock probably does, too.) A Sherlock Christmas Advent!fic
1. December 1st

John walked into the flat, juggling three shopping bags and humming _We Wish You a Merry Christmas_.

It took Sherlock approximately three minutes to say anything.

"John."

John smirked, grabbing the empty milk jug from the fridge and replacing it with the jug that he'd just bought. "Hm?"

"How many times must I ask."

"You haven't asked me anything, actually." John caught Sherlock's gaze and smiled widely, before noticing the bag of thumbs festering on the second shelf. "And _I've_ asked you to put this stuff on the bottom shelf!"

"Eye for an eye, John."

John muttered a few choice words under his breath, dropping the bag of putrefying thumbs onto the bottom shelf. He put the rest of the groceries away silently.

He was flipping through telly for ten minutes when a Christmas-themed mobile phone advert flashed onto the screen.

It was, therefore, not his fault when he started absently humming _Do You Hear What I Hear_ to himself after the advert was long finished and the programme back on.

"_John_."

John laughed, twisting around to look at Sherlock. "It's not my fault, Sherlock. It's everywhere. You can't avoid it."

"It's annoying. Stop humming that atrocious tune."

"Which one?" John asked innocently.

"All of them!"

John only laughed under his breath.

* * *

**I decided to write an advent fic! (Even though it's the eighth.)**

**Reviews would be lovely, as would be follows and favs! Thanks!**


	2. December 2nd

"... Can we put up our tree?"

John asked the question hesitantly, unsure of Sherlock's reaction but nearly positive that it wouldn't be good.

"What?"

"A tree?"

Sherlock sighed heavily, looking away from his microscope. "What _are_ you talking about?"

"A Christmas tree?"

"I don't have a Christmas tree."

"You _buy_ one, Sherlock."

"I'm not buying a Christmas tree," Sherlock said with a tone of finality, looking back to his microscope.

"I could," John suggested.

"No."

"But, Sherlock-"

"No."

"I've always had a Christmas tree!"

Sherlock didn't respond and John stared at him in growing irritation. John tolerated all of this _experiment_ stuff and Sherlock wouldn't even let him have a Christmas tree?

"Honestly, John," Sherlock murmured.

"It's _Christmas_! We're having a tree!"

"No, we're not."

"This isn't up for discussion."

"You asked," Sherlock reminded.

"I take the question back."

"You can't take _words_ back, John."

"We're having a Christmas tree."

Sherlock sighed heavily, leaning away from his microscope. "And where, do tell, are you going to _put_ it, John?"

John blinked. "Well..." He cast his gaze about the sitting room. Sherlock was right; they had virtually no room for anything else.

"We're not having a Christmas tree."

John sighed, dropping his head onto his hand, silently brooding.

* * *

**Because I don't think they actually had a Christmas tree! D:**


	3. December 3rd

"Oh, bloody hell."

"Sherlock-" John shifted his weight, pressing the strand of lights more firmly against the windowframe. "Sherlock, hand me those push pins, yeah?"

"What _are_ you doing, John?"

"Decorating," John replied sternly. "Hand me those push pins."

"I'll have no part in this... festivity," Sherlock muttered in return, his voice cold and dripping with the serious dislike that he had towards anything Christmas-related.

"Sherlock!" John gasped. If Sherlock didn't get him those push pins soon, either the lights or he himself were going to end up on the floor. It was quite possible that it would be both of them, actually.

Sherlock sighed, grabbing the package of push pins and holding them out to John.

"I don't see why you're doing this."

"Well," John muttered, grabbing a pin and carefully tacking the strand of lights in place, "since we can't put up a tree, this is the best we're going to be able to do. There."

John stepped down, taking a step back to admire his work.

"They're crooked," Sherlock commented.

"Well, I'm sorry! The windows are tall and my arms are short." He muttered the last part under his breath, much to his chagrin.

Sherlock sighed and, clearly annoyed, stepped up onto the chair to fix the crooked bulbs.


	4. December 4th

"What do you want for Christmas?" John asked, blinking as he looked at Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't respond.

"I thought I could get you something weird, you know, like something to do with chemistry or something."

There was no response.

"Or I could get you a paid subscription to _My Weekly_, since you seem to like reading that so much."

John paused, drumming his fingers on the armrest.

"I could get you new books. I could get you clothes that actually _fit_."

Still, he received no response from Sherlock.

John wasn't surprised. Sherlock either ignored him or glared at him when he talked about Christmas. He didn't know why, exactly, but... Holidays were a time to be social and that didn't fit Sherlock at all.

"I know, you probably want a murder or something, but I can't do anything about that. Personally," he muttered, to himself, "I could do without a case on Christmas."

John looked back at Sherlock.

"Are you going to say anything at all or are you just going to let me talk to myself?"

Sherlock still didn't repond.

John blinked and stood, walking to the couch. He realized, then, that Sherlock's eyes were closed and his breathing even. Sleeping.

John shook his head, sighing as he covered Sherlock with the blanket.

* * *

**Note: The fact that Sherlock doesn't have clothes that fit is somewhat obvious, but he also apparently does not know his clothes size. He also reads _My Weekly_. Information from _Sherlock: The Casebook_.**


	5. December 5th

It was stupid, really, John realized. It was a stupid, childish urge.

He turned the Santa hat over in his hands, running his fingers through the soft, red fabric.

It was a stupid idea.

But it was a stubborn idea. It wouldn't go away; it was nagging at his mind and he eventually decided that he might as well try.

It was evening when John got his chance.

Sherlock was pacing across the sitting room, his violin in his hand. Occasionally, he'd pluck a note, probably absently, his eyes narrowed in thought. He was composing, although most of the actual composing seemed to be happening in his mind.

John gripped the Santa hat and casually stood, making to walk past Sherlock into the kitchen. However, he stopped directly behind Sherlock and, with a grin on his face, forced the hat over Sherlock's inky curls.

"John!" Sherlock frowned, turning to glare at John. "What is this rubbish?"

Despite the fact that Sherlock was glaring, the fluffy, white ball on the tip of the hat hanging into his eyes lessened any anger that Sherlock may have been trying to get across.

John dissolved into laughter.

"How tasteless," Sherlock muttered, wrenching the hat off his head. He contemplated it for a moment, his eyes disgusted, before transferring the hat to Billy.

* * *

**Note: Billy, according to _Sherlock: The Casebook_, is the name of Sherlock's skull.**


	6. December 6th

"Sherlock...?"

"Mm?"

John watched him for a moment. "Sherlock?"

"What?"

"It's the sixth."

"Is it? I hadn't noticed."

"I figured."

Sherlock grunted in reply.

"Look, I know you don't care about Christmas, but-"

"You want me to draw my attention from something that is by far more important so we can watch the lighting ceremony of the tree in Trafalgar Square."

"Essentially, yes," John muttered. He fumbled with his gloves, pulling them on. "It's awkward to go by myself."

"So? Don't go."

"I want to go."

"Then go."

"Sherlock," John groaned. "It's a tradition. Please."

"It's not my tradition." Sherlock sighed, peering at John over the edge of his book. "Why is it so important to you? It's just a tree and a bunch of lights." He waved his hand towards the window. "We have lights."

"It's just-" He sighed. He could not explain Trafalgar Square's tree lighting to Sherlock and make it make sense. It just _wouldn't_ make sense to someone like Sherlock. John was, abruptly, exhausted. "Nevermind."

John turned for the door, zipping his coat.

"You think it's majestic," Sherlock said from behind him. "I suppose I can understand that." He stood. "Fine."

John paused in surprise before smiling softly. "I promise, it won't be boring."


	7. December 7th

John heard the violin that moment that he stepped into the house.

It didn't really surprise him, to be totally honest. Sherlock had been in a funk since John had woken up this morning. Ever since the tree lighting event last night, Sherlock had been unnaturally quiet. John hadn't been able to figure out if it was a bad quiet or a good quiet.

He ignored the music, shrugging off his jacket to hang it up. It was freezing outside. John wouldn't have been surprised if it started snowing within the next twenty four hours.

He rubbed his arms briefly, taking the stairs two at a time.

When he stepped into the flat, he realized that he recognized the tune, just from really hearing the tail end of it.

"Sherlock!" John said loudly, crossing the room.

"Good evening, John. Did you-"

"You were playing _We Wish You a Merry Christmas_!" John accused.

Sherlock frowned. "What?"

"You were!"

"Oh, the violin. Yes."

"You say it's annoying when I so much as have a Christmas advert on the telly!"

"It is. It's your fault, anyway. You introduced the tune to me."

John grinned. "You're getting in the Christmas spirit!"

"Hardly," Sherlock scoffed.

He then proceeded to turn away, reaching to, once again, pick up his violin bow.


	8. December 8th

"John."

John didn't look away from the newspaper. There was a journalism article about the reported affaire happening between someone who had, until quite recently, worked at surgery with John. He didn't believe anything written by journalists, as a rule, but it honestly wouldn't surprise him if this certain person _had_, in fact, been involved in this affaire.

"John," Sherlock repeated, sounding annoyed.

John glanced up briefly. "Yeah, I'm listening, what do you want?" He looked back at the newspaper.

"It's snowing."

"Good," John said. Then, he stopped, looking up. "What?"

"I _said_, it's snowing."

John stood, quickly joining Sherlock at the window. Sure enough, fluffy, white flakes were floating through the air, settling silently on the ground. They melted when they touched the pavement below, but John knew it was cold enough for the snow to stick on the grass, at least.

"The first snowfall," John muttered, smiling gently.

He loved snow. He had always loved snow, ever since he was a little kid, and what little kid didn't? Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, what with their crime-fighting occupation, it didn't snow much in London.

"So it begins," Sherlock murmured.

"Winter..."

"Winter doesn't begin until December 21st," Sherlock replied automatically.

John rolled his eyes and, smiling, met Sherlock's gaze blissfully.

* * *

**Considering I didn't decide to write an advent until today, I had some catching up to do. So, welcome to Summer's Sherlockian advent!fic! I hope you enjoy it! Happy holidays. :P**


	9. December 9th

Lestrade cleared his throat.

John and Sherlock looked at him.

Lestrade looked up.

John and Sherlock followed his gaze.

John's face went crimson.

Sherlock frowned.

"Who- who hung _mistletoe_?" John spluttered, scrambling away.

"What's the deal?" Sherlock griped.

Lestrade frowned. "You don't know?"

John, still blushing, sank into his chair and took a large gulp of his tea.

"Know what?"

"Two people standing under the mistletoe?" Lestrade asked, blinking. "They're supposed to kiss."

"_Well_, not in this house!" John said quickly.

Sherlock sighed. "You two are childish." He disappeared into his bedroom.

Lestrade grinned, looking at John. "So... If not Sherlock, who were you planning to get caught under it with?"

John nearly choked on his tea. "I didn't hang it up!"

"Uh huh..." Lestrade's eyes were filled with humour.

"I didn't! Why would I?"

"I don't know." Lestrade shrugged. "But your reaction was amazing. It's like you _did_ just get caught under the mistletoe with your crush."

John was positive that his face could not get any more red. "Lestrade!"

Lestrade laughed. "I'm just joking with you, John."

"It's not funny..." John muttered, although, to anyone else, he realized that it was. "My sad misfortunes in life..."

Lestrade grinned, joking as he said: "And you thought Afghanistan was bad."

* * *

**I had to work mistletoe in a Christmas story, somewhere. xD**


	10. December 10th

"What do you want for Christmas?"

This time, the question was voiced from Sherlock.

John looked up in surprise.

"What?"

"Christmas." Sherlock was sprawled out on the couch, fingers steepled under his chin, staring at the ceiling. "What do you want."

"Er..." John didn't know what to say, honestly, because he hadn't expected Sherlock to bother with the trivialities of gift-giving. John planned on getting him something, but he didn't expect anything in return.

"I don't know," he said, frowning to himself. "I hadn't thought about it."

Sherlock turned his head, looking at John. His quickly assessed John's face, eyebrows furrowing.

The typical self-consciousness of being deduced washed over John. "What?"

Sherlock looked away. "Coat."

"_What?_"

"You like my coat. Ever since I quipped that a good coat makes you appear taller, you've been contemplating buying a new one. I'll purchase a coat for you."

"W-Wait, what? Hang on!" John spluttered. He refused to admit that he liked Sherlock's coat or that he'd been thinking of buying himself a good long coat. "Don't tell me what you're getting me!"

"Why not?" Sherlock sounded bored.

"Because it's supposed to be a surprise!"

"Surprises are dull. Really, John, I don't know how normal humans get by..."


	11. December 11th

John reeled back from the mixing bowl, coughing violently.

Sherlock looked up as he walked through the kitchen, holding his bed sheet in place. "What are you coughing? I removed the chemicals last night."

"Ci-" John waved a hand, still coughing. "Cinnamon."

Sherlock frowned.

"I'm making applesauce ornaments."

"Three problems, John. One, we don't have a Christmas tree. Two, how can you make ornaments out of applesauce? Three, what does this have to do with cinnamon?"

John turned back to the mixing bowl, carefully sinking his hands into the applesauce-cinnamon mixture. "I know we don't have a tree; I'll hang them somewhere else. Secondly, when you mix applesauce and cinnamon, it can... well, it forms a sort of a solid mixture that you can take cookie cutters to or whatever and then let dry overnight."

Sherlock snorted, although John was aware that the detective was now standing over his shoulder. "Why bother?"

"It's fun," John retorted, continuing to knead the mixture. "I think I need more cinnamon..." He glanced at Sherlock. "Could you...?"

Sherlock sighed, wrenching the lid off of the cinnamon. "I keep getting roped into this Christmas thing, John."

"You know you actually enjoy it," John teased, smiling.

"I do not," Sherlock retorted immediately, adding a generous amount of cinnamon to the bowl.

* * *

**Cinnamon applesauce ornaments are tons to fun to make, not to mention they smell delicious. (Although I wouldn't advise eating them.)**


	12. December 12th

John carefully rolled snow into a small snowball.

"- not to mention the fact that the blood spatter is absent from the snow-"

John rolled another smaller snowball, placing it on the first.

"- so stupid that you can't understand-"

John rolled a third snowball, smaller still, setting it on the other stacked snowballs.

"- honestly, John could have figured it out... John?"

John glanced up from collecting pebbles. "Huh?"

Sherlock stared at him briefly. "You haven't been listening."

"Uhh... no." John carefully pressed two pebbles into the smallest snowball, creating eyes for his miniature snowman.

"You've been building a miniature snowman, on the railing, of the porch, where a murder occurred."

John paused before grabbing a small twig. He snapped it in half before adding arms to his snowman. "Yeah. You solved the murder, right?"

Sherlock joined him, looking unhappily towards the small snowman. "Of course I did."

"Nice," Lestrade commented, standing next to John. "That's cute."

John rubbed his nose. "Well, there's, like, a half inch of snow and there's no way I could make a normal-sized snowman."

"No, really, John. It's cute. Although, I think Sherlock's pouting," Lestrade said, both he and John glancing up as Sherlock stalked away.

"What? Why?"

Lestrade grinned. "Because you didn't tell him he was brilliant."


	13. December 13th

"Oh, for-"

"Don't _even_ say it!" John interrupted, futilely resisting the urge to smile.

"You look _ridiculous_."

"I don't care. You know, I hang around you too much. Your inability to care what people think is rubbing off on me."

"You could at least _attempt_ to dress properly!"

"I am dressed properly." John glanced down at himself. "Jumper, trousers, shoes."

"You cannot call that heinous piece of fabric a _jumper_."

"The fact that you keep emphasizing certain is not going to help."

"Ugh." Sherlock turned away, wrenching the newspaper back in front of his face.

"'Tis the season," John muttered, smiling.

Sherlock dropped the newspaper again. "For _Christmas jumpers_?"

"Well, yeah, when else would I wear Christmas jumpers?" John replied, blinking as he poured himself a cup of tea. "Not in the middle of summer."

"John," Sherlock said seriously.

John looked at him hesitantly. "What?"

He recognized that tone of voice. It was the 'Sherlock's thinking of an experiment' voice. It was the 'Sherlock's curious' tone of voice. It was the 'Run, John, run!' tone of voice that John was all too aware of by this point.

"Could I borrow that jumper?" Sherlock continued, his tone still completely serious.

"No..." John said slowly, frowning. "Why...?"

"I want to know how long it takes that fabric to burn."


	14. December 14th

"You've never had a candy cane?"

Quiet.

"Sherlock?"

Silence.

"You haven't, have you?"

John was struggling not to laugh. Sherlock's missing pieces of childhood were atrocious (the man had never been sledding), but the fact that he'd never had a candy cane was just funny.

"Honestly, John, why is this such a big deal?" Sherlock retorted, not looking up. "Christmas dinners were bad enough; we didn't need to prolong the discomfort with such idle things as _candy_."

"Okay, well, this isn't a Christmas dinner," John said, offering a candy cane to Sherlock.

Sherlock glanced up briefly, looked back to his laptop, and looked back at John again, realizing that he was being offered a candy cane.

"Take it."

Sherlock leaned back in his chair as he hesitantly took the candy cane.

"It's not going to bite you," John muttered, amused, retreating to his chair.

"That is yet to be seen," Sherlock murmured, peeling the cellophane wrapping back.

"It's peppermint. We've had peppermint tea."

"Why isn't it called 'peppermint cane', then?"

John frowned. "Because that sounds stupid?"

"Well, 'candy cane' isn't too bright, either..."

"Come on, you're thinking too much."

"I don't think too much," Sherlock muttered, eyeing the candy cane. "Unlike most people, I just use my brain..."

* * *

**Btw- Happy Hobbit Day!**


	15. December 15th

"Christmas cookies," Sherlock stated upon stepping into the sitting room.

"Yes," John said enthusiastically, sliding the cookies off the tray.

"Smells good," Sherlock commented absently, unlooping his scarf from around his neck and shrugging his coat off.

"Get me the dough from the fridge?" John asked, scraping the cookie sheet.

"You're putting red and green sugar on the top," Sherlock commented, grabbing the bowl of cookie dough from the fridge. "Isn't that a bit much?"

"Of course not," John said. "Drop that on the table."

"The cookie dough?"

"Yeah. I disinfected the table." John grabbed the bowl, dropping the dough onto the table. "You could help, you know."

"I'll leave this to y-"

"Grab those cookie cutters," John said, rolling out the dough.

"What?"

"The cookie cutters!"

There was the clinking of metal as Sherlock gathered the cookie cutters. "I don't-"

"Bring them here."

After much hassle, and quite a lot of complaining, Sherlock was staring at the rolled cookie dough with a look of intense concentration on his face. Every so often, after _too_ much thinking, Sherlock would press the cookie cutter into the dough.

John was standing by, sprinkling sugar over the warm cookies. At least, that was his excuse.

Really, he was just standing by, watching the consulting detective, smiling warmly behind his back.


	16. December 16th

John shuffled up the stairs, shivering as he stepped into the living room.

"If it's so cold, why do you bother going shopping?" Sherlock asked, sounding bored.

"_Because_, we need _food_, because _you_ use it all on _experiments_!" John griped, taking the shopping to the kitchen. "I got more milk. We're running out."

"Fine," Sherlock murmured. He had been, and still was, sprawled out on the couch, looking lazy.

"Bought tea, too. English Breakfast."

"Great."

John turned, noting a mug on the counter. He nearly complained (Sherlock, put your dishes in the sink!) before noticing it was still full. It seemed like there was... hot chocolate in it.

"Sherlock? What's this?"

Sherlock didn't respond.

"Sherlock, is this hot cocoa?" He nudged the mug. It was hot. "Did you make hot chocolate?" He paused. "Did you make hot chocolate for _me_?"

"I didn't make it for myself," Sherlock retorted irritably, drawing his arm over his eyes.

John wondered, intensely, if Sherlock was embarrassed.

John curled his fingers around the mug, lifting it to sniff at it. It didn't seem to be tampered with; he took a sip. It tasted _wonderful_ and it was deliciously warm. "Oh, that's good..."

Sherlock was studiously not looking away when he replied.

"Good. I thought you liked these... childish beverages..."

* * *

**Not entirely Christmasy, but I think hot cocoa works with the territory. :p**


	17. December 17th

"From Greg, Mrs. Hudson, oh, she must have just added it into the pile..."

"Would you _shut up_?"

"There's one from your mum."

Sherlock looked up. "From my _mother_?"

"Yeah. It's addressed to you."

Sherlock shrugged to himself, taking the envelope. He thumped it onto the desk, not bothering to open it.

"You're not going to open it?" John asked, opening the card from Greg.

"No. I don't care. You can. It doesn't matter."

"It's addressed to you, Sherlock. I'm not comfortable opening your mail."

"You have before."

"It was marked 'perishable' and I wanted to make sure it wasn't dangerous!" John retorted, setting up the cards on the mantlepiece. "Open your card, so I can put it up here."

"You open it."

"Sherlock-"

Sherlock sighed heavily. "It's just a card, John. Our family never personalizes anything." He opened it. "Just the typical happy holidays, have a good year, that lark." He handed it to John. "It's dull."

John sighed, peering into the card. It _wasn't _personalized. No wonder Sherlock was so unsentimental. It seemed the whole family was.

"Don't worry about me, John," Sherlock said, glancing at him. "Your sister is going to forget to send you one."

John blinked, frowning. "Wha-"

Sherlock smirked. "Don't feel bad."


	18. December 18th

"No two snowflakes are the same."

John looked up from his alfredo. "What?"

"That is what they say, isn't it?" Sherlock's voice was tranquil. John was unsure how to respond.

"Uhh... yeah. I think it might be rather impossible to test that theory out, though."

Sherlock glanced at him. "_Why _would I _want_ to test it?"

John was shocked. Sherlock wasn't trying to figure something out? He was actually just... _appreciating _something?

"Are you sick?" John blurted.

Sherlock glared. "Honestly, John."

"Sorry, but... you never mention anything that you _don't_ want to test. You have to figure _everything_ out..."

"I do not."

John looked at him.

"... Maybe a bit," Sherlock allowed.

There was silence, broken only by the clink of John's fork against his plate.

"It's... nice," Sherlock muttered.

John nearly choked on his alfredo.

Sherlock looked down at him, frowning again.

"Sorry," John gasped, taking a drink of tea. "Sorry, yeah, it's nice. Beautiful. Snow, that is," John said, waving his fork towards the window.

"... Obviously," Sherlock murmured. He looked back to the window.

John paused before grabbing another bite of his pasta. He stood and walked over to Sherlock, stopping next to him.

The snow really was beautiful.

"John."

John looked at him.

"Your chewing is obnoxious. Tone it down a bit."


	19. December 19th

"Shall we invite some people over for Christmas?"

Sherlock grunted.

"Just the regulars. Invite Mrs. Hudson up, have Lestrade over... You know, just the people that visit on their own accord, anyway."

"I don't care."

John glanced at him. "Really?"

Sherlock was slumped against the cab door, tapping furiously away on his mobile.

"You're serious?" John asked, his tone disbelieving. After all of Sherlock's complaining about Christmas...

Sherlock didn't look up. "Fine, yes."

"Are you listening?"

Sherlock looked up now, annoyed. "Of course I'm listening. Christmas party. Social gathering. General unpleasantness. Go ahead."

"Why the sudden change of heart?"

"I didn't have a change of heart, but if stops you talking, go ahead."

Ignoring the blunt rudeness of most of that sentence, John felt himself smiling. "Good. Good, yeah, I'll have to pick up stuff. We can make pie and sugar cookies and have a sort of dinner. Of course, I'll have to employ Mrs. Hudson's help-"

"No," Sherlock interrupted. "I said you could invite people over; I didn't say we were having a... Christmas party. You all can chat and have... tea and biscuits," Sherlock muttered.

"Tea and biscuits." John, despite Sherlock's statement, couldn't stop grinning. "Oh yeah... This holiday season, we're going to be _very_ British."


	20. December 20th

"What are you doing now, Sherlock?"

John stumbled down the stairs, yawning widely. It was just past eight in the morning. He liked to sleep until nine, nine-thirty... Bit difficult when Sherlock was making noise in the kitchen.

John peered into the kitchen. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock's attention was on a mixing bowl in front of him, his back to John.

Sighing, John pushed the door open the entire way and stepped into the kitchen. "What sickening experiment are you working on this time?"

"Egg nog."

John paused. Had Sherlock, seriously, just uttered _egg nog_ in response to John's question?

"Egg nog?" John repeated, looking around Sherlock's shoulder, into the bowl. "Why are you making egg nog?"

Sherlock huffed, grabbing the spoon to stir the drink.

"And why are you making it in a mixing bowl?"

"We don't have a punch bowl," Sherlock retorted.

"Oh... yeah, right. You broke it during the dry ice experiment."

"That wasn't my fault."

"Really it was."

"That wasn't my fault," Sherlock repeated stubbornly. He looked up. "Do you want some eggnog?"

John eyed the drink in the bowl, before looking at Sherlock suspisciously. "What did you spike it with...?"

Sherlock looked back at him innocently. "Nothing."

John frowned, stepping away slightly. "Considering your reputation, that's really hard to believe."


	21. December 21st

"Sherlock!" John yelled. "Sherlock, wait!"

Naturally, when Sherlock was on a case, he didn't listen to anyone.

John coughed against the cold, trying uselessly to ignore the snowflakes pelting his face.

Of _course_ they had to be out chasing a criminal (on a long shot, Sherlock had said) during a, well, London-esque snowstorm. Of _course_.

"Sherlock, just forget it!"

They were both going to be down sick with flu if they didn't get out of this weather soon.

Sherlock didn't notice him shouting. He hadn't seemed to notice the cold or the snow or the fact that it was _winter_-

"Sherlock!"

John skidded on a patch of hidden ice, stumbling. He caught himself against the wall, just managing to keep himself from collapsing.

"Sherlock, there's a ton of ice," John started, but...

Sherlock suddenly hit the ground with a disconcerting _thump_, a flurry of Belstaff coat, blue scarf, and snowflake-peppered hair.

Resisting the urge to laugh (it wasn't funny, it really wasn't, but Sherlock was always so _graceful_), John caught up with Sherlock.

"You okay?"

Sherlock stared up him.

John offered a hand. Sherlock took it.

"Are you okay?" John repeated, brushing snow off of Sherlock's back.

"I hate winter!" Sherlock announced, stepping away from John. "It's so... so _bad_!"

* * *

**Okay, so what if I'm overexaggerating how much it snows in London? It's fiction! :P And it makes for a fun ficlet.**


	22. December 22nd

John flinched as he felt something fall onto his chest.

"Sh'lock...?" John mumbled instinctively, fumbling for the light on his nightstand. Light flooded the room; John blinked slowly, tiredly, at Sherlock, who was standing by his bedside, looking uncomfortable.

"What are you doing?" John muttered. "It's four-thirty..." He turned his attention to whatever he had felt land on his chest. It appeared to be a present, layered neatly with the polar bear gift wrap that John had picked up a few days ago. "What's this?"

"Present. Christmas. Obviously."

"Sherlock... it's only the twenty-second..." John muttered, sitting up. "And it's four-thirty in the morning."

"So?"

"You won't get your present until Christmas Day..." John muttered, peeling the paper on the gift back. He wasn't going to argue. He was curious now.

"I don't want anything."

"Too bad..." John murmured. He paused. "Sherlock... if this is a coat like yours..." John said, suddenly remembering their conversation earlier in the month. "I will not wear it."

"I knew you wouldn't," Sherlock replied instantly.

John opened the box, finding a new navy striped jumper. He blinked. It was so... so _normal_.

"Thanks!" he said, grinning at Sherlock.

He could never have enough jumpers.

He was just happy that it wasn't a body.


	23. December 23rd

"Why are we here, John?"

"We need food for the party tomorrow," John replied, picking up a can of condensed milk. "Get me a bag of flour, will you?" John dropped the can into the trolley. "And a bag of sugar!"

Sherlock returned, arms laden with baking supplies. "What are you baking?" he asked, dumping everything into the trolley.

"Pie. Biscuits. That's probably it for pastries. The turkey in the fridge..." John glanced up. "You haven't ruined it, have you?"

"You specifically forbid me from so much as breathing towards it."

"Good," John said, pausing to look at the top shelf of an endcap. "One of those, too, yeah?" he said, pointing.

Sherlock grabbed the jar of cherries from the top shelf. "Cherry pie, then."

"I'll make apple, too. Greg asked me."

Sherlock didn't reply and their shopping continued quietly.

"John...?" Sherlock stated at one point, breaking the silence.

"Hm?" John didn't look up.

"Can we pick up some of those little cakes on the way home?" Sherlock asked awkwardly.

John blinked and looked up. "What? Why are you asking me?" He frowned. "You can get whatever you want for dinner, as long as it's edible."

Sherlock watched him for a moment before nodding slightly. "Okay... Good. Yes." He looked ahead. "Next stop: the bakery."


	24. December 24th

Sherlock sighed, fiddling with his bow.

John watched Sherlock quietly, eyebrows furrowed.

Mrs. Hudson was chatting with Molly; Greg was in the kitchen pouring Molly a refill.

"Here you are," Lestrade said.

"Oh, thanks!" Molly said, moving to take it from him.

"No problem," he replied, smiling faintly.

John nearly choked on his wine in an attempt to get words out. "You're under the mistletoe!" he accused, pointing towards the sprig of mistletoe above Molly and Lestrade.

The mistletoe had stayed there; John knew he ought to have taken it down, but he hadn't, instead just avoiding that doorway. But now, it finally had a use, an amusing one at that.

"What?"

"You know what they say, Greg," John said cheerfully.

"You don't even follow that rule-!"

"_My_ flat," John interrupted quickly, "my rules!"

Lestrade and Molly were both red in the face as they looked back at each other.

"Uh..."

Greg quickly leaned forward and kissed Molly's cheek.

"There!" he said, taking a large gulp of wine.

"No fair..."

"You didn't specify that it had to be on the lips."

"Oh, no," Molly said quickly, "it was fine, it- it was great."

Everyone looked at her.

"Oh, no, I meant-"

Sherlock sighed heavily. "Oh, Christmas. Where everyone mills around and stutters and stands around blushing..."

* * *

**A little Christmas [situational] Lestrolly... which happens to be the one pairing I like in _Sherlock_. Sorry if you don't ship this pairing; but, remember, it's only thanks to the mistletoe!**


	25. December 25th

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock," John murmured, rubbing his eyes as he stepped into the sitting room.

"Where have you been hiding my gift?" Sherlock asked suddenly, looking at him from the couch.

"Huh?"

"I've been over the flat and haven't noticed anything amiss."

"Oh." John smiled faintly. "I figured you'd be snooping and trying to deduce your present, so I let Mrs. Hudson hang onto it. Hang on."

It was five minutes before John rejoined Sherlock. "Here, then. Don't analyze it, just open it." He handed the box to Sherlock.

"Hmm..." Sherlock looked at it for a second before peeling the gift wrap back. "It's clothing of some sort. Please don't tell me you tried to buy me a button-down."

"At least I know your size, unlike you."

"I don't need to bother with such trivia as shirt sizes and numbers..." He lifted the top off of the box. "Ah..."

"Didn't know what to get you," John murmured, sinking in his chair.

"It's... fine." Sherlock pulled the pile of fabric out of the box. It cascaded halfway to the floor in what was clearly a black dressing gown.

"You wear that blue one all the time, and you have the red and tartan one, so..."

Sherlock's lips twitched towards a smile. "I daresay black is my colour, wouldn't you agree?" he said, shrugging off his blue dressing gown.

"It's harsh," John agreed, "defiant, demanding, has no emotional value..." John listed, nodding. "Yes, it fits you well!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, although he was smiling to himself. "Hmm..." He looked down at himself. "Yes. I... It's good." He paused. "Thanks."

John smiled. "Not a problem."

Sherlock placed the empty box in his chair before thumping himself down on the couch. "Merry Christmas, John."

John smiled warmly, sinking lower in his chair. "So, did you finally get into the holiday spirit?"

Sherlock glanced towards him, opening his eyes slowly. "Holiday spirit? That's dull." He looked back to the ceiling.

"You did give me a gift."

Sherlock grunted.

"And you like your gift."

Sherlock didn't respond.

"And you said 'thank you' and 'Merry Christmas'."

Sherlock snorted, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. "Just because I gave into social custom does not mean that I appreciate the sentiment of holiday spirit." He paused. "But... I suppose... that it's not so bad... when I'm... celebrating with my blogger..."

John paused before smiling. "And when I'm celebrating with my pompous consulting detective, it's not a bad Christmas at all."

Sherlock 'hmm'ed before closing his eyes again, smirking briefly.

* * *

**[Instead of 221 words, it's 442. I couldn't manage the Christmas Day chapter in only 221 words...]**

**HAPPY CHRISTMAS!**

**I got a blue dressing gown and a shock blanket and a new scarf [black & white, but I already own 'Sherlock's' =p] for Christmas! I hope your Christmases were bright and merry and filled with the things that you love! Thank you so much for being such loyale readers! I appreciate each and every one of you!**


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